


The Compromise

by gross_batpanda



Series: Tallboy Is Online [3]
Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Daddy Kink, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism, camboy Ben
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 05:18:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10379358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gross_batpanda/pseuds/gross_batpanda
Summary: Takes place in an alternate version of tallboy, later in the story, where Nate discovers just what it is that Ben does to pay his tuition. Written for Fight Back Fic Auction.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is solely the product of a thought experiment, and doesn't actually reflect the true course of the plot of tallboy is [online].

The Compromise

With a grunt, Nate throws down his bookbag and drops, a deadweight, onto his bed. The day hasn't even begun to grow old, he has a million things to do, but he can't stem the persistent frustration that sparks under his skin, the distraction that's fragmented his attention almost since he woke up this morning. It's an understatement to say that he hasn't been himself lately, but he's hardly at a loss as to the cause.

He checks his phone out of habit, but there are no unread texts awaiting him, just pointless group messages from his classmates about shit he couldn't possibly bring himself to care about. But nothing from Ben. It doesn't shock him. There's been nothing new from Ben for two weeks. 

With a frustrated sigh, Nate rolls his shoulders, casts a momentary glance out into the hallway. He'd left the library hoping to be able to take a midday nap, take his mind off of school for a moment, but he already knows that sleep won't be coming to him anytime soon. Half on autopilot, he opens his laptop, clicks into Chrome, and starts in on the folder of private bookmarks. 

They're old favorites, tried-and-true destinations for when he just needs to get off before he's going to be able to think straight or get any of his work done, but for one reason or another, nothing satisfies. He's only half-hard in his jeans, his dick hardly responding to the hand grinding up against his fly trying to help things along, his mind scattered, and before he knows what he's doing he's typing an address into his search bar that he wishes he'd never seen, the pseudonym that he wishes he didn't know. 

<<User offline>>

He's on at the wrong time, it seems. But there's a free teaser, if he wants. He doesn't think. He presses play.

It's a punch to the gut to see Ben like this: strangely composed, poised, but not inauthentic. He's not playing a part, not hamming it up for the camera. He's lying in his bed, the same bed Nate recognizes from all the long hours he's spent there himself, the one in Professor Washington's house. He's comfortable, not at all out of his element, and yet Nate can't help but sense a certain amount of...tension, an anticipatory strain that makes him worry at his bottom lip and makes his fingers fidget against the bedsheets. 

Nate lunges forward just in time to set the laptop to mute, acutely aware that hearing the sound of Ben's voice will be enough to send him into a tailspin of unpredictability, an unknown, hazy space where he might do absolutely anything at all, regardless of how utterly unwise it would be. So long as he doesn't have to listen to that all-too-familiar hitch in Ben's breath he can convince himself that he's just watching some nobody, some nameless body on display. If it's not Ben, he doesn't need to ask himself why the figure in the video keeps throwing his gaze upward and forward toward some fixed point just askance of the camera, even as his fingers clumsily work over the buttons of his own wrinkled shirt. 

As Nate watches, the figure in the video (not Ben, he can't remember that it's Ben, he can't dwell on it unless he wants to go crazy) discards his clothes and reaches for something smooth and sleek and silicone that Nate hadn't realized he'd owned. He takes his time with it, ghosting the edge over his nipples, down his sides, patient and focused. 

Ben shuts his eyes, lost in the flood of sensation, the vibrator drifting steadily down to where Nate so desperately wants to see it go, until the scene abruptly shifts. Ben's eyes snap open, his muscles tense up, the angle of the frame slips, and Nate realizes: someone is holding the camera. There is someone else in Ben's room.

He has the sudden urge to shut his laptop screen, to look away, rebutton his fly, go to the gym or go for a run or throw himself into the traffic on Chapel St. But Ben's mouth has gone slack, his hand speeding up, and Nate can't help but reach for the earbuds plugged into the headphone jack. 

The sound of Ben's ragged breathing is almost enough to make him come all on its own, triggering a flood of memories. But then Nate picks up the sound of another voice, not quite as familiar to him but certainly not unknown: a low, rumbling baritone, gently but firmly ordering Ben to up the setting on the black silicone toy. This Ben does, without a moment's hesitation. Nate's breath catches in his throat, hand moving over himself at speed now. 

Ben doesn't finish on screen. Nate supposes he'd have to pay for that kind of thing. But before the video cuts out, a hand reaches out to tangle in Ben's hair, angling his face up towards the camera, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. Nate comes right then and there. 

* * *

 

They practically run headlong into each other, on the path in front of the Trumbull dining hall.

Nate's prepared to walk away, just pretend they didn't see each other. He doesn't need to be reminded in the harsh light of day of the fact that twice a week for the last month he's been logging on to his computer with the name of a town where he'd once taken a summer job for a screen name, just as Ben slides into view on the screen. He doesn't need to be reminded of how pathetic he is, that he pays to watch his ex get off ostensibly for the pleasure of strangers while Washington looms just out of sight, a constant invisible presence, 

But Ben grasps his arm right above the wrist, looks so genuinely pleased to see him, and insists that they get together for drinks later that night, insists that they catch up. 

So Nate meets him after class, somewhere a little more respectable than their usual, and after four drinks Nate realizes that this isn't about catching up at all, this isn't about closure or responsibility or maturity or any of those qualities that he had hoped to demonstrate by suffering through such a pointless exercise. Four drinks in, and Ben has his hand resting casually on Nate's thigh under the bar, and Nate finds himself wondering if Washington ever takes him here, meeting under the cover of an advisor consulting with his student about a paper or something equally innocuous. 

"Hey," says Ben, eyes cast down towards the worn wood of the bar, "this is kind of a weird question, and I don't -- I don't want you to freak out, okay?"

"What are you--" 

"Haddam55." 

Nate freezes, his drink halfway to his lips. His face is burning, he can only pray that it's dark enough in the bar for Ben not to notice. But he doesn't know how he's supposed to deny it. 

"You're sure you're not mad?" he says, still looking away. 

"Why would I be mad?" Ben says, voice low. 

"Because -- Jesus, Ben, this is weird." 

"Then I guess it wouldn't make things any weirder if I said that I think about you sometimes. You know. For the camera." 

Nate feels all the air go out of the room. 

"You don't mind that it proves that I'm only a massive hypocrite?" he says, praying that he can keep his voice from cracking. 

"It was a pretty big bomb to drop on you," says Ben with a shrug. "I probably would have reacted the same way if it was the other way around." 

"Still. I shouldn't have been such an asshole about it." 

"Yeah, probably," Ben concedes. He takes another swig of his beer before turning around on his stool and looking Nate square in the eye. 

"Hey, your roommate's still abroad right?" Ben asks after a second or two. "How about you make it up to me?" 

Yeah, Nate thinks. Yeah, he can do that. 

* * *

It's not the same, of course it's not. For one thing, the unspoken fact of Washington's hold on Ben is like the elephant in every room. But Nate finds plenty of reasons to be reassured. Ben's still setting his own schedule, he stays the night over at Nate's without so much as a murmur of protest, lingers long into the morning, sticks around on campus for lazy weekends studying together in their sweatpants.

Washington doesn't come up even when Ben finally convinces Nate to come back with him to the bungalow on Edwards street. 

Nate's not even sure why he cares so much frankly, or why he finds himself listening so intently to the sound of Prof. Washington puttering around in the kitchen downstairs even as Ben is easing down the zipper on his jeans, slipping a hand under Nate's waistband. Nate hears the TV turn on, some news anchor's rumbling voice filtering up from the ground floor, and Nate's struck with the image of Washington sitting there, a drink in one hand, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and Nate's breath catches. He wonders if Washington ever takes Ben like that, bent over the arm of the plush leather couch while cable news drones in the background. He wits for the wave of jealousy to hit him, but instead he just feels his head go light at the thought, at the sudden, fleeting idea of what it would be like to have Washington's hands stroking him over his boxers, Washington's mouth ghosting over the underside of his jaw. He bites his own fist to stifle the moan that threatens to give them away, and Ben smiles against his neck. 

* * *

He's got to get over it sometime, whatever it is: this unclassifiable thing he's developed for his boyfriend's landlord. It has to be just a temporary glitch, some crossed wires in his brain.

It's enough that he's made his peace with the idea of sharing Ben with someone else, that by some miracle he isn't bothered by the idea of Ben getting pounded into the mattress by his professor when Nate has a late meeting or too much work or just isn't in the mood. But he finds that he's more comfortable with the thought of spending time in the house than he ever thought he would be. He's so comfortable he even forgets to show up late to pick him up, in the reasonable expectation that Ben can't get himself out the door on time to save his life.

"He really should have given you a call," says Washington, stepping aside to let Nate over the threshold. "He went up for a shower a little while ago, it shouldn't be long."

Nate opens his mouth to say that he'd be perfectly happy to just go upstairs and wait for Ben there, to stay out of Washington's way, but the man is already easing his coat off his shoulders and setting it on a hook beside the door.

"How about something to drink, while you're waiting?" he says, gracious and smooth. It's nothing but the practiced social niceties of a man used to hobnobbing with college deans and eminent scholars, but for a moment it actually makes Nate feel like exactly that: like a colleague, an equal, like one of the club. Straightening his stance a little, he says that actually, yes -- a drink sounds great.

He stands at the kitchen counter as Washington grabs a glass from the shelf, throws in a few ice cubes, and Nate only realizes that he never told Washington what he'd like once Washington is pushing a perfect rye and soda at him across the counter. He takes a cautious sip, desperately trying not to wonder how it is that Washington knows what he drinks, trying to figure out how to make small talk that doesn't lead him to a fool of himself. But Washington solves that dilemma for him, launching into a question about Nate's summer plans and rattling off a list of possible teaching fellowships that he might be interested in. By the time Ben makes it down the stairs, hair still a little damp but otherwise presentable, Nate's settled comfortably on the barstool, listening to Washington elaborate modestly on his upcoming book.

"Sorry about that," Ben says with a grimace. "I hope you weren't waiting too long."

"It's fine," Nate insists. "We were just talking."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," says Nate, hoping that the warmth that's come into his face is just a product of the drink. "He's a nice guy," he finishes lamely, acutely aware that they've basically stumbled onto one of their few forbidden topics.

"He is," says Ben, and Nate knows it's not his imagination that makes Ben look a little pink around the ears.

"So," Nate interjects, voice a little too loud for the quiet street, "what were you thinking for dinner?"

* * *

They're on the couch, where heretofore Nate has never allowed them to linger for more than a couple of minutes, but the walk to Ben's bedroom seems impossibly long and the way Ben grinds their hips together through their jeans is making it impossible for him to catch his breath. He's just about convinced himself that they'll be fine, just about gotten himself to focus fully on the sensation of Ben's cool hands running up and down his back beneath his shirt, the scrape of his teeth against his earlobe, when he hears the unmistakable sound of the front door creaking open.

"Shit!"

There's a crack as his watch makes flailing contact with the coffee table, his other hand grasping to refasten the buttons on his half-open shirt, but before he can make any progress at making himself presentable, Ben takes a hold of his hand, settles him down.

"It's fine," Ben whispers. "Don't worry about it."

From behind them, Nate can hear the measured cadence of heavy steps coming from the entryway toward the living room.

"Ben, for godsake--"

"Shhh."

Nate shuts his eyes, his pulse pounding, a wave of nerves battling with the sudden piercing arousal at the prospect of being caught like this, sprawled over Washington's expensive sofa with Ben's hand in his back pocket. At first he thinks Washington is just going to make a beeline for the stairs, give them their privacy. But no.

Instead, Nate glances to his side to see a pair of legs in well-pressed trousers standing beside the coffee table.

"Don't mind me, boys," Washington says lightly, before setting himself down in the armchair directly across from them, leaning back a little to better survey the sight. Nate bites down on his lip.

"Is this okay?" Ben whispers, breath warm and damp against the side of Nate's neck. "If you want him to go--" 

"No," Nate blurts, surprising himself. "No, I mean -- yeah. He can stay. If he wants. It's his couch," he adds, with a nervous try at a laugh. 

He attempts for all of thirty seconds to pretend that Washington isn't in the room, but that quickly becomes impossible. Nate's too acutely attuned to him, even when he's got his eyes shut and Ben's hands in his hair. He hears the rustle of Washington's clothes against the leather chair, the slide of his shoes against the floor, and finally, _ finally _ the muffled slide of a button fly coming undone, and suddenly the pressure of Ben's hips against his own is too much, too fast. 

Ben pushes Nate up and back until they're kneeling across from each other on the cushions, wringing a whine from Nate's throat at the sudden loss of friction. He drops a kiss to the corner of Nate's mouth, incongruously sweet.

"Would you like to go to upstairs?" Ben asks innocently. Nate nods, dazed, but Ben grasps his chin, tilts his face up. 

"Yes," says Nate, duly corrected. Feeling bolder, he casts a glance in Washington's direction. He's sitting up straight now, hands politely on the armrests, though Nate knows that's not where they were a moment ago. He repeats himself, injecting all the confidence he can into his voice, holding Washington's gaze for as long as he can stand it. 

"Yes." 

A few minutes later, Nate's standing in the center of Ben's bedroom floor, undershirt and button-down in a pile by the door. Ben's about to start in on his belt, when Nate feels a hand rest lightly at the small of his back. 

"May I?" Washington asks. Nate's sure he's going to choke on his own tongue before he can get himself together enough to say yes, but he's already got Washington's other hand on his hip, then his fingertips dragging lightly up to his waist, an almost pensive gesture. There had been a few taut moments where Nate hadn't actually been sure that he was reading Washington right: he'd kept a respectful distance on their way up the stairs, had stood aside when Ben had pushed Nate through the door. But he's more than closed that distance now: if Nate wanted, he's sure he could grind back just an inch or two and find Washington hard and eager for it. Maybe he could entice him to sharpen his grip on Nate's hip. Leave him bruised. 

Nate shudders, tips his head back as his belt clatters to the floor. Ben's grinning like the cat who got the cream. 

"You should know," Washington whispers, "he hasn't stopped talking about this for weeks." 

"Yeah?" Nate breathes, making fleeting eye contact with Ben as he inches his hips backwards towards where Washington has planted himself, immovable and resolute, behind him. "I'll bet he has," he says, curious to know where this goes. 

"But you know how greedy he is," Washington remarks, offhand. 

"I do," says Nate, captivated by the way Ben's gaze has slipped to the floor, the embarrassed flush that's come into his cheeks.

"I've been meaning to ask for your advice on that front," Washington continues. "Balancing carrot and stick. I'm beginning to wonder if a new approach isn't called for, in his case. The message doesn't seem to be sinking in. Maybe a lighter hand?" 

Washington undoes the last button on Nate's jeans, letting them fall to the floor even as Nate rolls his hips back against his unmistakable erection, remembering the marks he takes care never to ask Ben about: the spotted bruises scattered over his ass, red and purple welts across the backs of his thighs. It's not as though there's ever been any kind of mystery as to where they came from. Nate still watches the shows, after all. 

"What do you think, Ben?" he asks, voice borrowing a little of Washington's dangerous timbre. "Would you like to be taken care of? Do you think you deserve it? Do you think you've been good enough?" 

"No," says Ben at once. "I -- I don't. I know I don't. Sir." 

Washington steps out from behind Nate, reaching Ben's side in two decisive strides. He sets one hand lightly on Ben's shoulder; just rests it there, like it's nothing at all. But Ben reads the command humming under the surface of the innocent gesture and sinks at once to his knees, sits back on his heels, mouth slack. 

"Good answer," says Washington. Nate makes a choked-off sort of sound. 

Ben's discipline is holding him steady, but Nate can see how much he longs to lean forward, press his face to Washington's slacks, rest his hands on the backs of Washington's thighs and draw him in. Maintaining the distance between them, Washington cards his hand through Ben's hair, tilts his chin up.

"I don't think so," Washington chides. "You didn't think I'd let you forget about our guest, did you?  _ Manners _ , Benjamin." 

"I'm sorry," blurts Ben, automatic. He meets Nate's eyes before he speaks again. "Yes, you're right. I'm sorry." 

Nate's mind, already running on fumes for the last half hour, sluggishly prompts him to step forward into Ben's space, as he's so clearly being invited to do. But before he knows it Ben's already shuffling forward on his knees toward him, face turned up. His tongue swipes over his lips, and Nate is caught up for a moment in the way they shine under the low lamplight, mesmerized. He realized his own mouth has gone very dry. 

Ben's already taken the head in his mouth when Washington steps in again, this time leaving Ben pressed between their two bodies. He grips Ben just at the junction between his neck and shoulder, steering him, slowing him down. Very quietly, he tells Ben when to inch forward, when to hollow his cheeks, when to open his throat. He holds Nate's gaze when Ben moans around him, measuring to the moment when he wants Ben to pull away, Nate's cock falling from his lips with a slick sound. Nate wonders if he's going to pass out. 

"I've had a thought," Washington says, as Nate struggles to catch his breath. "Get on the bed, Benjamin. Open yourself up for us." Ben makes a stricken sound, practically scrambles to do as he's told, pulling a bottle of lube from the bedside table drawer even as he settles himself against the headboard. 

"Fuck," Nate breathes, as Ben proceeds to put on a proper show for them. Behind him, Nate can hear the sound of Washington's belt coming undone, clothes hitting the floor. But he's not surprised when Washington's hand closes around his cock, still wet from Ben's mouth. He pushes up into it, unable to stop the whine that escapes his throat when Washington only treats him to two slow, thorough pulls, his fingers drifting down to trace along the smooth span of skin behind his balls. 

"You're one that needs to learn patience, too," he whispers into Nate's ear. "I can teach you too, if you'd like. Just like I taught him." 

"Yes, please," he says, voice breaking. And then, because he sees no earthly reason not to, he continues. "Please, Daddy." 

At first he's not sure that Washington hears him, but Ben certainly does. Sprawled over the sheets, his whole body shudders as he adds another finger to the two currently stretching his own hole. 

"What was that?" Washington asks, all innocence. Nate swallows, steels himself, goes all in. 

"I want you to teach me, Daddy. I want you to show me what to do. Please. Teach me." 

Washington makes a low, thoughtful hum, well pleased. He rests his other hand on the jut of Nate's hip. 

"Of course, son. You only had to ask." 

Nate can feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. In front of them, Ben looks more than ready, his gaze already a little unfocused. With Washington's hand at the small of his back, urging him forward, he joins Ben on the mattress, shuffling forward until he's kneeling between Ben's spread legs. 

"Push up his knees," Washington prompts. "Give yourself room." 

Nate does as he's told. Ben holds himself as he's ordered. And soon Nate's awareness is limited to the points of contact between the two bodies that bracket him, to the steady stream of words that Washington pours in his ear and the tease of Washington's cock running over the cleft of his ass.

After, Washington cleans them both up. Nate's in a daze, half-aware of the warm washcloth wiping away the mess Washington left between his thighs. Ben's already succumbed to sleep and Nate's sure he's only moments from following him there when Washington pulls the rumpled sheets up over their bare shoulders. As Nate watches, he affectionately brushes the hair back from Ben's forehead. Then he catches Nate's eye.

"Well done," he says, very simply, and then he turns to go, shutting the door softly shut behind him. Nate leans back into the pillows, warm down to his toes, and drifts off. 

  
  



End file.
